The King's Justice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  Reitter rose slowly. He was sinuous, pared down to muscle and bone, thinner even than he’d been at the trial. They moved toward each other, as though they were dancers beginning a pas de deux. Half of his face was a mask of angry red and white scar tissue, the eye covered with a black patch. His other eye was blank, cold, full of hatred. It’s not me, Maggie thought. Or at least, not just me. It’s all women he despises.

  Now the meeting was actually happening, Maggie didn’t feel scared or angry anymore. She felt the same way she did when defusing a bomb: calm, in control, adrenaline pumping.

  “Hello,” he said, his voice cool, his gaze crawling down her body.

  “Hello, Mr. Reitter,” she replied, equally chilly.

  He smiled unpleasantly and his tongue flicked out for an instant. “Surely we’re on a first-name basis, Maggie?” he said, lips curling. He looked pleased, as if he had won something.

  Which I suppose he has, Maggie thought. I’m here, after all. But it’s not about me. And he won’t get the better of me.

  She made sure her face was relaxed and eyes were blank. She was here, yes, but she wouldn’t let him affect her. She pitched her voice in a low, even tone: “You may address me as Major Hope.”

  “You look well.”

  “Well, you have me here now, Mr. Reitter. What information do you have on the murderer they’re calling Jimmy Greenteeth?”

  He stared at her. “You might be free, and you might be wearing a uniform, but, like me, you’re a killer. I saw your face when you shot me. The look in your eyes was pure bloodlust.” His smile widened. “You and I—we’re more alike than you may think. ‘Every profound spirit needs a mask,’ ” he quoted. “Even more, around every profound spirit a mask is continually growing.”

  “Nietzsche,” Maggie responded. And he’s right, she thought, remembering how good it felt to pull the trigger, how powerful it was to be the hunter and not the quarry. She felt a moment of shame, of vulnerability; they had shared a violent, but also intimate, moment. Don’t let him inside your brain.

  “Coming here to see you was a mistake,” she said as if she were about to leave. “You obviously can’t help me.” She began to walk away.

  “Wait!” he called, his voice echoing down the hallway when it was clear she was serious. “Don’t go.” She stopped.

  “I’d like you to visit me every day until my execution. You took my eye. I think I deserve at least that much,” he said.

  Maggie retraced her steps. “Give me something on Jimmy Greenteeth and I’ll come back.”

  “First tell me one thing.” Despite the pounding of her heart, Maggie’s gaze didn’t waver. He asked, in an almost melancholy tone: “Do you ever dream of me?”

  She thought back to the nightmare she had of him, of shooting him, and felt light-headed. But she refused to let it show. “Yes. Yes I have,” she replied and felt queasy at his smile of satisfaction. “Now tell me something about Jimmy Greenteeth.”

  “It’s someone who knows me.”

  “Why do you think so?”

  He stood on his side of the bars, she on the other; they were equidistant. “Because this killing spree—it’s personal. The killer is trying to outdo me. Steal my legacy.” He overenunciated the words: “Have the last laugh.” His voice was dispassionate, but Maggie could sense being outdone was something he couldn’t abide. When he took one step forward, she didn’t flinch.

  He put a hand to his chin, his gaze traveling up and down her figure. “I’m not keen on the uniform, but thank you for wearing it especially for me.”

  Maggie felt a jolt as he saw through her choice of clothing, but she didn’t reply. This is probably the way he looked at the women he was about to kill. But he couldn’t hurt her now; he was the one behind bars.

  “So it’s someone who knows you. Knows you from the papers? Knows you personally?”

  “That’s enough for now.”

  “Mr. Reitter—”

  “Do call me Nicholas.”

  “Mr. Reitter,” Maggie repeated. “You told Detective Chief Inspector Durgin you have information about Jimmy Greenteeth. You requested to see me specifically. I’m here. And I need more than that.”

  “Need,” he mused, “is a dangerous word to people like us, isn’t it?”

  He’s not wrong, Maggie thought.

  “Speaking of needs—be careful of Durgin,” Reitter said. “He’ll use you. He’s not in love with you.”

  Maggie froze in shock. Did he deduce something from our body language at the trial? Or is it just another game?

  “You’ve changed,” he said, hands clasped behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Your soul is darker now. By the end of this war, it will be black as pitch.”

  Maggie felt panic begin to set in. That was her secret fear—that the war would indelibly alter her, so harden her she’d be too cynical to return to civilian life. Still, she refused to flinch. “Mr. Reitter—”

  “Nicholas. And I believe we have more in common than you might think, Maggie. We’re both fiercely independent, unable to find true love or believe we can be loved. If I’m not mistaken, we were both unhappy children. We want—need—to be admired for our cleverness.”

  She stared at him in silence. His face was neutral, but his pupil was enlarged, and a vein throbbed on one side of his forehead. “I’m here to discuss Jimmy Greenteeth, Mr. Reitter.”

  “You don’t think we’re just going to get to it, do you, Maggie? Without any foreplay?” Maggie turned to go.

  “Wait.” She paused. “That was inexcusably rude. I apologize. It’s been lonely in prison and I’ve forgotten my manners. Let’s talk about the killer they’re calling Jimmy Greenteeth.”

  Maggie turned. “All right, Mr. Reitter, I’m listening.”

  Reitter wet his lips. “I know things about the victims that are not in the papers. For instance, I know the bones have been boiled clean of flesh. And the murderer left the teeth.” Maggie regarded him evenly. “I also know about the white feathers.”

  He does know. Should I admit he’s right? “Where are you getting your information?”

  “Birds of a feather!”

  Maggie could taste her anger. “Don’t waste my time, Mr. Reitter.”

  “Have any of the teeth matched with missing persons?”

  “What?”

  “The teeth in the skulls found—have they matched up with any persons declared missing?”

  “N-no. But there are so many…”

  Reitter shook his head. “They probably won’t.”

  “Why not?” Then Maggie thought, Carmine Basso. “Nobody’s missed them. Because nobody’s reported them missing.”

  “Why?”

  She flashed back to the curiously unconcerned Renata Basso and her husband’s suitcase. “Because the men already had plans in place to go away. So no one would suspect they’re gone. Someone is preying on men who plan to leave the city?”

  Reitter smiled coyly, or tried to, with his twisted face. “I helped you this much—you’ll have to come back tomorrow for more.”

  So what does Reitter need? He wants to be a famous serial killer, more famous than Jack the Ripper, Maggie thought. He’s loving the attention. He’s going to enjoy it, play as many games as possible. But I need to fight, to turn the tables, and using his narcissism is the way to do that.

  “Jimmy Greenteeth’s almost caught up to your body count, Mr. Reitter,” she noted. “People are talking more about him than you now.”

  Reitter was silent.

  Maggie pressed, deliberately lying, manipulating him as he manipulated her: “I heard someone’s writing a book about you, The Blackout Beast of London. A reporter named Boris Jones, from The Daily Enquirer—you might remember him. But I also heard he might change subjects. His editor said, depending on how things go, t
he case of Jimmy Greenteeth might make for a better book. If he’s not stopped, you’ll die a footnote in someone else’s story.”

  There was a silent exchange between the two; Maggie’s chest ached and her lips tingled from all the things she wouldn’t let herself say. Reitter tore his gaze away first. He raised one finger. “Tomorrow, Maggie.”

  Maggie’s glance caught on one of the wooden beams in the cell. It had been carved on by numerous prisoners over the years: a crude drawing of a skull, the outlines of wounded feet and hands, symbolizing the crucifixion. And names: Charles Bailey, Harry Clarke, Roger Casement. And then, at the top, what looked to be a newly made carving. The letters were larger and more ornate. They read: Clara Hess.

  In spite of herself, Maggie started when she read her mother’s name.

  She squinted to see the writing scratched underneath, then mentally translated the French: It is not more surprising to be born twice than once; everything in nature is resurrection. Then, Voltaire.

  She was here, Maggie realized with a sharp intake of breath. In this very cell. And she fully anticipated her own escape and rebirth. Her face must have betrayed her realization.

  Reitter narrowed his eyes. “What?”

  Maggie said nothing, but she could feel the blood leaving her head.

  Reitter twisted around to see what she was looking at. “One of those names mean something to you?”

  “No.”

  He smiled. “No matter. It can be one of the things we talk about tomorrow.” He went to his cot and sat. “There is something that will get me to tell you the killer’s name outright,” he said in a teasing tone.

  “Yes?”

  “Have my sentence commuted from execution to a true life imprisonment.”

  “The trial’s over. There’s no way to stop the execution.”

  “The King could.”

  “But he won’t.”

  “So you say.” He turned away from her and lay down, facing the wall.

  The first interview was over. Maggie walked away with even strides. But when she was out of his sight, she ran down the stairs. “Where’s the loo?” she managed.

  Durgin put his arm around her shoulders, led her to the lavatory, and opened the door.

  She barely made it to the toilet before she fell on her knees, her stomach heaving.

  Once her gut was empty, the shaking subsided. She rested a few moments, then closed the lid and reached up to flush. She stood, and her head spun.

  Maggie dragged herself to the sink, running the cold water tap, washing her hands, rinsing out her mouth, splashing water on her face. She leaned back against the wall and tried to catch her breath. Her mother’s face stared back at her from the mirror—while she had her father’s thick red hair, she’d somehow never realized how much she resembled Clara Hess. Father’s hair, mother’s eyes.

  There was a knock at the door and then Durgin’s voice: “Are you all right?”

  She remembered Reitter’s words, He’ll use you. She ignored the poisonous thought, sudden and shocking. Setting her face back into a professional mask, she called, “Tickety-boo.” Stiff upper lip now, she thought. Must be stiff-upper-lippy. Like Vera. She patted her hair back into place.

  “It’s all right if you’re not.”

  When Maggie opened the door, he searched her eyes. “If he did anything to you, I’ll kill him myself,” he said.

  “I’m fine,” she repeated, pulling on her jacket to straighten it. She took a deep breath. “And I have something we might be able to use.”

  * * *

  —

  Maggie and Durgin left the Tower, walking back up the hill beside the moat. The light and shadows slanted.

  Maggie felt drained, as though she had lost too much blood and stood up too quickly. She was cold. She dug in her handbag for her cigarettes and lighter, her hands shaking. “I’m so tired.”

  Durgin put his arm around her shoulders protectively. “We’ll wait to debrief until we can get back to the office.”

  She settled into the curve of his arm. He’ll use you, she remembered. Then, Oh, shut up. “Can we go to your flat?”

  Durgin took a breath before nodding. “After all, you went face-to-face with a monster today. He’s pure evil.”

  “I used to think that, too,” Maggie said, finally managing to light her cigarette and drawing in, the tip glowing red. “But he’s human. Just another sad human.” It’s time to go back to science.

  “No human behaves like that—he’s evil, personified.”

  “Look—by attaching such mythology to Reitter, you’re making him more powerful than he really is,” Maggie stated, although her voice trembled. “He’s a man, just a mentally ill man, with a particular pathology.”

  “He’s one of the people of darkness.”

  “The dark isn’t intrinsically evil,” Maggie pointed out, preferring to argue rather than remember what she’d experienced. “Dark can be as holy as light, just as winter is as necessary as summer.”

  “You haven’t worked with the Met as long as I have.”

  “But I have seen people commit horrific actions,” Maggie countered, thinking of her time in Berlin, in occupied Paris, the Nazis she’d encountered. “Psychology is in its infancy—like medicine in the days of using leeches. Perhaps someday we’ll look back and see not evil but mental illness.” Maggie exhaled smoke as she walked. “Still, these people—they’re dangerous, like an infectious disease. Reitter as an individual and the Nazis as a group.”

  “Hmm.” Durgin didn’t sound convinced.

  “Someday, scientists may show people have the same susceptibility, exposure, transmission, incubation, and latency periods for what you call ‘evil.’ ”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What you call ‘evil’ is contagious, like a virus. It’s spread through violence and cruelty, passed down from generation to generation. Until the cycle is broken.” It was easier to talk about evil in the abstract than to think about the one-eyed murderer in the Tower.

  Durgin grimaced as he held up one arm for a taxi. “Whit’s fur ye’ll no go past ye,” he said in a thick Scottish accent.

  “What does that mean?”

  “What’s meant to happen will happen. Whether these people are evil, or ‘infected’ as you say”—a black cab pulled up to the curb in front of them, the tires spraying black water from a puddle—“we still have to find them, arrest them, and lock them up. Or else more innocents will die.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Reitter’s playing games with me,” Maggie said from the sofa. She felt as if she’d been in a battle.

  “Of course he is.” They were back at Durgin’s flat after having had dinner out; once again, he was making tea. “But what did you learn?”

  “He says he knows the killer’s name. And the killer is someone who knows him. Someone who’s competitive with him. Also, the victims won’t be among those reported missing because they are expected to be away.”

  Durgin nodded. “I anticipated as much.”

  Maggie rummaged through her handbag for a cigarette before she remembered Durgin didn’t like her smoking them in the flat. She dropped the bag on the floor instead and drummed her fingers on the hard sofa arm. “And who might have some connection to the military, given the white feathers and the antagonism to the COs. A friend? A colleague? A war veteran who was injured and came back to London? Someone who served in the Great War?”

  Durgin walked toward her with the tea tray. “We can look at his classmates, neighbors, and colleagues,” he said, sitting next to her. “I’ll get Staunton on that.”

  Maggie thought back to the missing Carmine Basso. If what Reitter’s telling me is true, why didn’t the description of Carmine’s teeth match the found skulls? Is Carmine being held prisoner somewhere, awaiting his death? “When
are you going to say something publicly about the victims being conscientious objectors and the link with the white feathers?” Maggie asked pointedly. “So the COs, like Milo and the other men I work with, can be aware of the danger—and take precautions to defend themselves?”

  “You know it’s more complicated than that,” Durgin said, frowning at her with concern. He grasped her hand and lifted it to his lips.

  “Still, Reitter knows.” Maggie shivered and drew her hand away. “And, by the way, he’s requested my presence again tomorrow.”

  Durgin poured them both steaming mugs of tea. “How do you feel about going?”

  “I hate it. I hate every minute of it. But it seems to be our only option to find out anything more on Jimmy Greenteeth.” She picked up a mug, then leaned back, cradling it in her hands to warm them. “I need something to hold over him. Otherwise I have no power.”

  “What, like better food, that sort of thing?”

  “He wants the King to pardon him.” Maggie blew on her tea. “I know it won’t happen, but I want to be able to offer him time.”

  Durgin gave a harsh laugh. “Out of the question. He’s been sentenced. The date of his execution has been set.”

  She took a sip. “There’s a war on, James. Don’t tell me anything’s out of the question these days. He’s afraid to die—we can use his fear.”

  “I’ll—I’ll see what I can do. Talk to the judge. But it sets a bad precedent.”

  “In the meantime,” Maggie said, “I suggest you and your men get practical.”

  Durgin took a large gulp of his tea. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean, draw the murderer out. Have a community meeting about Jimmy Greenteeth. How to protect yourself, that sort of thing. Seeing Reitter again made me remember how arrogant he is. Greenteeth most likely is as well. And I’ll bet you anything if you publicize a meeting, he’ll be there, somewhere in the crowd, listening and gloating. He won’t be able to stay away.”